by Josie Gold
After I refused to share my own life story with her, she changed tactics. She started inviting me to lunch, helping me on my shifts, and trying to introduce me to the other Librarians. I always rejected her. She hadn’t given up, though. She was even trying a new tactic: subtlety.
I thought about yelling at her that I didn’t need help. That I didn’t want it, or her, or the Library. Instead, I just stared at her, my expression colder than the third floor.
When she left, having given up for the day, I sat down in the snow and made a small snowman.
Finally, the sun set. I left the third floor, having done none of my tasks for the day. As I walked down the stairs to the Head Librarian’s office, the cold seemed to follow me.
Torra’s office was one of the few places that never changed within the Library. It was small and cozy, with a hearth and tattered furniture. The Head Librarian’s desk was piled with books and plates covered in jams and crumbs.
Torra didn’t look up as I entered. He faced the flames, their light emphasizing the deep wrinkles in his nut-brown face.
No one knew how old Torra was, or how long he’d been the Head Librarian. Some thought that he must have been there since the beginning, that he had come with the Library. The Library treated Torra with great reverence, always fetching him whatever he needed, attuned to his moods and desires.
I didn’t hate Torra, not like I hated the others. It was hard to hate someone so ancient and feeble-looking. Not that he was actually fragile. Once I saw him fly across the Library to smack a patron who was mishandling the books. This patron was some Duke or Lord, but he didn’t dare raise a hand to Torra. Even Kartheyans that didn’t see the use of books respected Torra.
He turned to look at me with gentle, knowing black eyes.
“I don’t know why you insist on these lessons,” I grumbled, pacing around the small room.
I couldn’t understand why Torra had such a small office. He may not be a part of the Council of Mages, but being the Head Librarian was still an honor. But Torra was the opposite of decadent. He wore the same faded Librarian robes and carried a gnarled cane of silver birch. He said little, but his face was expressive.
He watched me walk around the room. Torra never pushed me during the lessons. But he never just let me leave. At first, I thought I could outwait him. Once I stayed a whole day and was forced to sleep on the floor and woke with horrendous back pain. And still, he wouldn’t let me leave.
Then, I thought I could annoy him, the way I annoyed the Library. But never once did his placid features change, never once did his voice raise in anger. His patience grated my nerves. It heightened the swooping, clawing feeling in my chest.
I paced faster, trying to ignore the feeling. A smile pulled at the corner of his thin, wizened lips.
“Fine,” I spat, “but only so I can go to bed.”
I closed my eyes and concentrated. I imagined unlocking my ribs from the inside, one by one. The flitting, alive thing in my chest stopped and watched impatiently. Finally, I peeled myself back just enough for it to emerge.
I opened my eyes as a furious gale of wind tore through the room. I felt the warm, encouraging rush of magic and tried to fight against it. I attempted to direct that gale of wind to my palm, but instead, it ripped into the books and collectibles on Torra’s shelves. It took out the fire and sent the dishes on Torra’s desk to the floor.
“Give in,” came Torra’s deep, velvety voice, “don’t force it.”
I did the opposite. I clenched my fist, raging at the magic to obey me. As the wind continued to whirl around the room, I was once again reminded of how much I loathed my magic.
I would have happily lived out my life keeping my magic a secret. But four months ago, I put on a rather public display of my wind magic. I wished I could say I lost control over something noble. Like defending a child or fending off an attacker.
No, it was a fight with Mother. The same stupid fight I always had with her.
“Why can’t you be like your siblings?”
I had conjured a wind that tore apart half of our house in the Politician’s Square. The worst part, though, was seeing the gleam in Mother’s eyes as she watched my magic manifest. Not quite pride, not hope. But potential. She finally saw potential in me.
And then a month later, that gleam left her eyes when I was forced to join the Library.
I gritted my teeth, banishing my mother’s face and voice.
“Be gentle with it,” Torra encouraged.
But I felt enraged and utterly hopeless. The last emotion is the one I gave into and it was what made my wind die slowly.
I opened the door to my little room. It was just two beds, two wardrobes, and a bath in the corner. Telsey, already in bed, had conjured a ball of light to hover above her palm.
Telsey’s magic was as bright as she was. She could conjure star-hot beams of pure white light. She usually manifested them as floating balls of light, but when she was happy, the light seemed to spill from her very pores. She was powerful, but used her magic to help others. That was why when Torra died, she would take his place.
“How was it?” Telsey whispered. “You look…”
She trailed off when I swiveled aggressively toward her. I knew how I looked. Cheeks red, brow furrowed, lips curled back in a snarl. I was always like this after magic lessons. I could feel myself at my most feral and vicious. Telsey remained quiet as I finished getting ready for bed.
Long after Telsey’s light winked out, long after I had ignored her goodnight, and long after I crawled under my covers, I felt my magic beating against my ribs. It wanted more. But I never gave in unless I had to.
I told myself, as I did most nights, that this couldn’t last. I was the worst mage Torra had ever seen, and I was an even worse Librarian. There was no way they would let me get away with shirking my duties. They would kick me out soon. And after that…
I didn’t know.
I couldn’t go home.
I closed my eyes and tried to prepare for another day of helpless anger. And dizzying shame.
FENNION
I awoke to the taste of alcohol rotting in my mouth. So, a night well spent.
I groaned, stretching out my limbs. Apparently, I slept in a wooden chair last night with a bottle of whiskey still clutched in one hand. As I got to my feet, I looked around and saw my guests were in no better a state than me. They seemed to have simply fallen asleep where they dropped. Some of them slept in huge mounds together, their bodies tangled in various states of undress.
Last night, I hosted a party in one of the smaller ballrooms within the Royal Palace. We had been crammed together while drinking and dancing. Then sweating and grabbing at each other.
Yes, all in all, a good night.
I picked my way through the sea of bodies, trying not to step on anyone.
I meandered the halls of the palace jauntily sipping at my bottle. Servants greeted me politely as I passed. Some looked disapprovingly at my rumpled state. Others rolled their eyes affectionately and even winked at me.
I had a reputation. I liked to see it as a reputation for throwing the best parties in all the land. Others didn’t have quite the same point of view as me.
As I made my way up the stairs to my wing of the castle, longing for my bed, a tall shadow suddenly loomed ahead of me. Someone was coming down the stairs toward me. I knew exactly who it was, so I plastered on a blasé smile.
Highlar stopped three steps above me, looking down his nose at me. His eyes roved over my soiled clothing and the half-empty bottle of whiskey. His plush lips curled.
My smile grew wider, and I sketched a little bow for him.
“Brother,” I drawled, offering him a sip of my whiskey.
Lightning fast, Highlar grabbed the bottle from me and poured it over my head. I didn’t flinch. I had mastered not flinching long ago.
“How rude,” I remarked as whiskey poured down my face.
He grabbed the front of my shirt. I searc
hed his face, trying to guess what he might do next. He was remarkably like our mother, the High Queen. His skin was a few shades lighter than hers, a deep and warm bronze color. But his full lips and dark brown eyes belonged to my mother. His dark red hair was hers too, but kept longer and in a bun. But while my mother was regal and fine-boned, my brother was hulking and brutish.
The only thing we seemed to share were the freckles dotting our noses and cheeks. But I suspected he grew out his red beard to try and hide them.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” Highlar asked, deceptively polite. I raised an eyebrow.
“Why yes, I did. I would have invited you—”
“You’re good at that, aren’t you? Enjoying yourself.” His whole face changed when he was tormenting me. His mouth became hard and cruel, his eyes black. He gave me a quick, brutal shake, awakening a headache.
“Is that all you plan on doing with your worthless life, Miracle Prince?” he jeered, using my court nickname.
When I was born, I was dubbed the Miracle Prince. I was conceived while my father was very ill and was born shortly before the Seizing Sickness took his life. The courts told tales about me, how I was the last gift the High Queen could give her Royal Consort before he died.
Highlar used the name as a reminder that I was the spare of the spare to the throne. I was no figurehead, like my sister Karsea was. Karsea was the heir to the throne and had been groomed from birth with a sense of purpose and duty I envied. Whereas Highlar, the first Prince, had been groomed since childhood to take over the War Makers.
I was cosseted and beloved. But unneeded.
“What would you have me do?” I wondered, tapping my chin in thought.
Highlar’s face contorted further and I braced myself for the blow. Even as adults, he usually tried to hit me in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. Highlar regained control of his expression. The tension left his face as he smiled down at me. Like a wolf baring its teeth.
“You can do nothing because you are nothing.” His voice was like a honey-covered razor blade. I closed my eyes, knowing what he would say next.
“Because you should never have been born.”
He let me go and I fell onto my knees. He laughed and stepped around me to continue down the stairs.
“Have a good day!” I called after him merrily. And then I puked my guts out on the steps.
The wonders of a good bath. I had stumbled into my bedroom to find my maid, Mrs. Clemena, tidying my room.
The walls were painted a deep blue and all the furnishings were black and silver. My bed was circular and covered in pillows. The wall behind my bed was not a wall at all, but a huge window that overlooked the Ezili Sea. It smelled like beeswax candles and my cologne. And scattered across the room were books—fiction novels, science novels, philosophy, romance, horror. I loved all genres.
Mrs. Clemena had turned from her cleaning and gave a little shriek, aghast that I was dripping whiskey onto the mosaic rug from Antress. She called for a bath and a good breakfast.
Mrs. Clemena delighted in babying me. She bustled around the room as I sank into the deep iron tub. Mrs. Clemena had been my maid since I was a babe and so my nakedness didn’t affect either of us.
A knock came from the door and then the scent of eggs and fresh bread greeted me. Mrs. Clemena brought my breakfast over for me on a tray.
“No one loves me as you do,” I sighed dreamily, biting into the warm, spicy eggs.
She swatted me, but there was a smile on her lined face. I didn’t think Mrs. Clemena was ever young. Since I’d known her, her ivory skin had been lined and her hair was always as thin and white as cobwebs. The only sign of aging further I’d seen in the last few years was the tremor in her hands that got worse in the evenings.
It was Mrs. Clemena who told me stories of the five Old Gods when I was a little boy, of magic and probability. It was Mrs. Clemena who would hold me after a nightmare, or when I was sick.
And it was Mrs. Clemena who kissed my hurts after Highlar was finished with me.
“What do we have planned for the day?” Mrs. Clemena asked, as she set out my clothes for the day.
I knew she liked picking for me, so I let her. Today she picked a turquoise jacket and black pants.
With a mouthful of fresh bread, I replied, “Same as always.”
The Library.
I took the back way out of the Royal Castle. In my hands were the last book I borrowed (Fae and Alien: A Theory on the Multiverse) and a travel mug of strong tea. With a hint of whiskey. Fine, more than a hint of whiskey.
I walked across the sand, admiring the Royal Palace. Long ago my ancestors made the southern shore of Kartheya the capital and built their palace right on the beach. When facing the castle’s front, it looked as if the castle was erupting from the waves. Even the stone had a blue-gray tint to it, like a stormy sea. The castle was built using stone from the highest mountain in Kartheya, the Mountain of Sighs.
I took my time walking through the Royal City. The Library was directly across from the castle at the other end of the city. It was just past midday, so the city was alive and bustling. An assortment of smells wafted in the air, from fresh pastries to thrown waste. Commoners and courtiers alike waved to me—I was their favorite—the approachable royal.
I purposely took a detour down a street of small, rust-colored houses. In Kartheya, the color of your house reflected your place within the world. The poorest houses were barely bigger than a chicken coop and the color of rust while the richest houses were sprawling golden buildings covered in ivy.
Children playing with a ball made of tattered fabric saw me walking toward them. They watched me warily. I pulled some coins and some sweets out of my pocket and beckoned them over. None approached.
“Come now,” I coaxed, my voice friendly. I threw one of the sweets in the air and caught it easily on my tongue. They laughed, but still looked unsure.
Finally, the youngest of them bravely stepped forward with a stubborn look on her face. Her fiery orange hair was in tight braids and she had dirt on her face. She came toward me and stuck her hand out boldly. I filled her tiny palm with treats. Soon, the others came forward. I smiled at each of them and memorized their names for next time.
I finally made it to the Library. I walked up the steps, my heart thumping as always. I went to the Library every day, but every day it was like doing it for the first time.
I paused outside the great wooden door and guessed what the Library would be like today.
“An autumn forest,” I said out loud.
I opened the door, then laughed. I never guessed right.
Instead of stacks and shelves, it was a series of subterranean tunnels. The walls were dark and wet. There were no lamps, but the rock twinkled with red and blue lights, bright enough to light the way. It smelled damp and earthy. Lining the walls were books and scrolls.
“This is new,” I remarked to the Library. The red and blue lights pulsed and I got the impression the Library was blushing.
Now, it was time to visit my favorite Librarian. I wandered the tunnels, picking out the books that sounded interesting to me (The Deer and the Dragon, Dance of Fate, A History of Ghouls). I turned down different corridors, trusting that the tug in my stomach would find her eventually.
I reached the third floor and spotted her sitting at a desk, glaring at a binder of papers. Harken Kenza was a wretched Librarian and that fascinated me. I peered around the corner, observing her. A smile tugged at my lips as I noticed that once again, she refused to wear the billowing Librarian robes. Today, she wore dark pants and a burgundy tunic.
My smile grew at the expression on her face. Pinched and sullen. I’d be a liar if I said she wasn’t lovely, even with her sallow skin and the dark circles under her eyes. She was a born lady, with the airs and grace of a courtier, but the manners of a shrew. Her family was well-to-do, so I had no idea why she ended up here instead of the Council of Mages. And she refused to tell me.
I made my move, taking the seat opposite her with a flourish. She was startled. And when she looked at my grinning face, her expression chilled. She stood and curtsied elegantly. She was taller than what was considered fashionable, her head coming just under my chin. Her body and limbs were lithe and willowy—not fashionable—but I thought it lent her an otherworldly quality. Like some fae creature from a story. Her chin was sharp and stubborn, and her furrowed brows a shade darker than her hair.
I bowed to her as well, a shit-eating grin on my face.
“Your highness,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Now, now. That’s not necessary, Harken love.”
2
HARKEN
I hated many people. But no man, woman, or creature did I despise more than Prince Fennion.
I had grown up going to events at the Royal Palace and although I didn’t know the Royal family intimately, I knew enough. I knew that High Queen Cheyla was steely and ambitious. I knew Princess Karsea was too soft-hearted to be a true ruler and Prince Highlar was too war-hungry to be of any real help to the kingdom.
For years I had disdained Prince Fennion from afar. He was a buffoon and his debauchery was legendary. I had marked him as a pretty but useless face long ago.
Then I became a Librarian and my disdain turned into true loathing. Every day he would come to whatever section of the Library I was assigned to and pester me for no reason other than that it seemed to delight him.
I glowered at his grinning face, then backed down, trying to appear unruffled.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked primly, refusing to look at him. Because once you started looking at Fennion, it was difficult to stop.